Remember the spirit animal craze? At the height of spirit animal culture, I was in college. Jenny Boully was my spirit animal. Nicki Minaj, pink-wigged and bossed up at the patriarchy, was my spirit animal. And Anne, of course. Always and forever, Anne Boleyn.
I feel small most of the time, Thumbelina small and shabby, and sore thumb out of place where I am. At work especially, which is exactly where I want to be. Here, there are very few titans - industry-shakers, fire-bearers - that I am calm enough to speak to without lisping and stuttering into ...
I've been carrying the same once-actually-very-nice-but-now-incredibly-dingy leather tote bag for a long, long time. It's not because I especially love this bag above all others or because it has some deep sentimental value. No, I've slammed this poor thing around for two years simply because it can hold all my crap.
Until about a couple weeks ago, my sense of self-worth was all knotted up in the length of my hair. Like a perfectly executed fishtail braid, this skewed perception wove through my neural network: curtains of mermaid curls are gorgeous; anything above the ears is an unfortunate mishap.
How was your long weekend? Mine was good. I spent it in the off-the-grid seclusion of my parents' cabin in the Catskills where I feasted on peaches and campfire marshmallows (don't come at me with graham crackers and chocolate) for three days, wore bug spray on MY FACE, and fell asleep each night to sleep the sleep of the sweaty and un-showered, a sleep as peaceful as the abyss, my scraped bare feet hanging off the edge of the aerobed.
Normally, I am opposed to superfluous days of nationally acknowledged niche-celebration. National Hairball Awareness Day? Meh. National Tooth Fairy Day? Why? National Maple Syrup Day? Like I need a reason. But National Bathtub Party Day is something that, as a genuine bubble bath enthusiast, I can get excited about.
by Amber Rambharose Almost any given object can be split in half with each half making up 50% of whole. I can only think of one exception. When someone asks if I am half black or half white, I don't want to give the comfortable response they are looking for.
The success of The Witch is a big deal and, hopefully, a sign of big things to come.
On the last page of Pain, Parties, Work: Sylvia Plath in New York, Summer 1953, I was left with a sense of Winder's devotion to her subject. This is a love letter, I thought, not just to Plath, but to beauty and to the women who sought it out in the 1950's.
The internet is chockablock with praise for Ryan Murphy this morning. He did it! He managed to pull all the threads of the season together, seamlessly, and create a weeks-long coherent story. You go, Ryan Murphy. Still, there's an equal amount head shaking going on - Detective John Lowe is the Ten Commandments Killer?
On Tuesday night, I had a pen and notebook in my lap and Scream Queens on my TV.